GHOST (Boston Underworld Book 3) (3 page)

The way he is staring at me disturbs me on a different level. He isn’t just looking. He’s seeing. All of my darkest secrets. The part of me that nobody ever gets to see. But he does. My armor means nothing to him.

He is different than Arman. This man scares me more than Arman. He’s too well put together. Too calm. His emotions do not show on his face for all to see. And his hands… they are huge. Heavily tattooed.

I imagine one of those hands around my throat, crushing my windpipe. It would only take one.

“Do not worry.” He brushes the matted hair away from my face in a surprisingly gentle manner. “I’m not going to fuck you.”

There’s a haunted sadness in his eyes. And something else too. A flicker of guilt. It’s a rare emotion in the men who come to visit me. It sets off all of the alarm bells in my head. If he’s not going to fuck me, then I don’t know what he has to be guilty for.

The confusion must be written all over my face, but he doesn’t explain further. Instead, he holds up a packet in his hand and shows it to me. Pain killers. He releases them from the foil and signals for me to open my mouth.

For just a split second, my eyes dart to the left. In the direction of my stash. Where I have every intention of putting these two pills when he leaves the room. So that I can make my seven days a reality, and not eight.

But this stranger is watching me carefully. Too carefully.

My lungs cease to function when he stands up and walks to the other side of the mattress.

I flop over onto my side, pressing it down with my weight. As if that would stop him. The man is a tank. He could toss my entire body into the wall with one hand, should he so choose. But I can’t let him win. Not this battle. The only battle I have left. My hands claw at his arms when he reaches down, but he’s too strong. And I am too weak. And now I’m merely a spectator as my peace is snatched away from me in horrifying slow motion.

He finds the pills easily. Some half and some whole, and some only a fine powder. For sixty days I have saved those pills. I have planned so meticulously. And in five seconds, he has uncovered my secret. He has destroyed everything.

“Please,” I find my rusty voice again. “Leave them.”

His eyes meet mine, and now… now they are even colder than before. Frozen over with a disturbing level of hatred.

His fingers pinch my face and his lips part. But the words he means to speak don’t come. Instead, he takes a breath. And then another. Calming himself. His brows draw together and his eyes search mine. I am a whore. A slave. A subhuman piece of merchandise that Arman will use until he finally tires of me. It should not matter to this man if I die.

He flicks the painkillers in his hand onto my tongue and then retrieves a flask from his jacket. He holds it to my lips and the liquid sloshes into my mouth, strong and rich. Cognac. It is not the thing Arman drinks, and I am grateful. This man doesn’t let up. He forces me to drink what’s left in the container. I know why. I know what comes next. But I don’t want to accept it.

When the flask is empty, he pulls it away and pinches my jaw between his fingers, prying my mouth open. He looks inside, and without an ounce of finesse, he seizes my tongue and searches beneath it.

But the pills are not there. He ensured that with the amount of liquid he made me consume. When he eases me back down onto the mattress, I can only hope the combination will usher me off into oblivion. His fingers sweep over my cheek. Gentle again.

An abominable noise escapes me when he bends down and scoops up every last remnant of my stash. The thing that is mine- the only thing I had- is now in his pocket. The dying ember of hope, snuffed out by one careless mistake on my part and one man too cruel for words.

The door opens and he does not seem to notice. Only when my gaze moves behind him, his posture straightens and he rises. There is another man in the door. A man like this one, only older. With the same type of clothing and many tattoos peeking out from every seam. He’s the type of man that upon first glance, people would cross the street to avoid. His eyes are without emotion when they land on me. He says something in Russian to the man in front of me while they both seem to appraise me.

My destroyer of hope replies and it makes the other man laugh. The older man slaps him on the back and nods before his face slips into a more serious expression. It appears as though they are trying to come to an agreement on something.

The older man takes a step forward, gripping my chin in his hand and forcing my gaze to him. He is inspecting me. Much the way that Arman inspected me when he first purchased me.

“I think you are correct, Lyoshenka. She will be the perfect gambit. Hit Arman where it hurts, yes my little dove?”

My chin jerks impulsively in agreement. The temptation of hurting Arman in any way makes me nod. I’m nothing more than a dog with a bone. A product of my environment. I want to hurt Arman, even at my own expense, which is probably what this man is referring to.

He releases me with a satisfactory smile and says one last thing to his younger companion before leaving the room. And then blue eyes is back in front of me, for a brief moment. He brushes the hair away from my face again.

“Go to sleep now, Solnyshko.” His breath is hot in my ear, scented with the oak and vanilla of his drink.

Before I can even comprehend what any of this means, he is gone.

T
hroughout the evening
, time creeps forward in the way that it always does during these events. Sluggishly. I’m waiting for my pill. The only thing that separates day from night anymore. Eventually, the door opens and the other slaves are brought in. The men have been sated and now it is time for them to conduct business and leave us here in the basement.

There are three other girls here this evening. They walk into the room like zombies in their drugged states and slide down the wall onto the cement floor. I could tell them what to do right now, and they would not argue. The addiction is the only thing that matters to them. The next fix. They do what they are told and then they get what they want.

We have common ground, but I don’t trust them. I can’t. Because the last time I tried to bond with another slave, she told Arman. My parting gift from that short friendship was a broken arm and a dislocated jaw. A reminder of what happens when you betray Arman.

I stare across the void that is my cell and examine the girls faces. They are all young like me. Thin and probably pretty once. Now their eyes are sunken and their skin dull. Cracked lips and dry, brittle hair. It makes me wonder what I must look like to them. What I look like at all. I can’t remember anymore.

I want them gone, I decide. Because we are not alike. That’s what I tell myself when they stare back at me too. I just want to be left alone where I don’t have to worry who to trust or what to say. I want to go back to counting the lines on the wall, but then I remember the truth. My mind is too fragile to accept it right now. That my hope has been snatched away from me so easily. That I’m not getting out of here in seven days.

That I’m not getting out of here at all.

Unless I find another way. The chains around my ankles aren’t long enough to wrap around my neck. I know because I’ve tried. Everything in this room has been considered. Examined. And when that failed me, I tried to leverage the only power I had. Provoking Arman and even Karolina into a state of violence that would finally set me free. But that never worked either. I’ve considered every option at my disposal, and the pills were the only thing that made sense. The only option I had left.

And now they are gone.

The numbness is dissipating again. The carefully constructed sanctuary I created to protect myself has been fatally wounded by the stranger with the blue eyes. I hate him. I hate him so much a tear actually squeezes from my eye.

I need the numbness to survive. And he took that from me.

Now all I have is this room. My silent thoughts. And these girls who stare at me like I belong here. Like we’re the same.

“What did he do with you?”

The skinny brunette with an accent breaks the silence. It takes me a moment to understand her question is directed at me. I’ve seen her before, but she’s never spoken to me. So why now? I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want to talk to anyone.

She mistakes my silence for apparent confusion.

“The fourth man,” she presses. “Mr. Nikolaev. Did he fuck you?”

They all lean closer, waiting for my response. I still don’t answer.

The brunette turns to her friend. “See, I told you, a sadist.”

“No.” The blonde shakes her head. “I don’t believe it. She doesn’t have a mark on her.”

“What does it matter?” the third girl asks. “Why do you want to know what he did to her?”

“Because,” the brunette explains, “Alexei Nikolaev is a recluse. He never leaves his house. Never comes to functions. He doesn’t own slaves, and he has never even been to an auction. Yet, he came here tonight. It is a huge thing. There are always rumors, but to see him in person… even Arman was surprised. He didn’t want him in here with her due to his reputation, but nobody says no to him.”

“What sort of reputation?” one of the other robots asks the same question that’s in my own head.

“He is a Vor,” the brunette whispers. “Red Mafia.”

“He’s not just a Vor,” the blonde sneers. “He is the councilor to Viktor Sokolov. The boss. Alexei Nikolaev has a reputation of being ruthless to anyone who crosses him.”

The Russian Mafia?

“I think he has business dealings with Arman,” the brunette rambles on. “Something fell through and Mr. Nikolaev is not happy about it. Arman is trying to mend fences. But one of the other girls said she overheard Alexei asking about his slave at dinner.”

They all look to me again, even though I’m nothing more than a silent participant in this conversation. I don’t have an answer for them. I don’t know what he wants. But I hope I never see him again.

The door opens, and this time, it’s Arman. He’s drunk and his eyes are lasered in on me. Which is never a good combination as far as I’m concerned. He stumbles over to me and grabs me by the hair.

“What did he do with you?” he demands. “Are you ruined?”

I don’t answer. I never answer him.

He shakes my head back and forth, yanking some of my hair out in the process. “Don’t play stupid with me, girl!”

A
nd then to my relief
, he lets go of my hair and moves around behind me. Then he promptly shoves his fat disgusting fingers right up inside of me.

“I knew it,” he laughs mockingly. “The man is all show. You are still perfectly intact. You aren’t ruined, little dog. So perhaps I will keep you around a while longer, yes?”

I turn away from his taunting words. The reminder that I will never be free of my cage. I wish for blackness. And it comes in the form of his fist in my face.

“
H
ow are things with Katya
?” Viktor asks.

I observe him from my space across the table. The restaurant has been cleared out to accommodate him. To most, I’m sure he is as fearsome as the rumors would have you believe. The Pakhan of the Vory v Zakone. But to me, he is simply my friend. Someone I respect and admire and who has given me a place in this life when others would not.

He values me. And he is risking his life by traveling this far with me. But even though my position within the organization is officially as his councilor, I am also his most valuable asset. My job cannot be done by any other within the Vory. My ability to manage the gambling operations and fatten Viktor’s wallet substantially is a skill set belonging only to me. There are hackers who pride themselves on their work. Who boast publicly under pseudonyms and taunt the authorities. I am not one of them. I simply fly under the radar as I have always done. As I learned to do at a young age.

My skills are unique. Forged over a lifetime of dedication and hard work. It is not talent. It is not luck. It is nothing less than perseverance that makes me the best at what I do.

For this reason, Viktor holds me in high regard. But I’d also like to believe he considers me a friend. And perhaps, as his role has evolved over the years, even a son.

I do not like lying to him. But when it comes to Katya, I must. Viktor would not stand for such a betrayal. If the truth were ever uncovered, he would surely have her slaughtered. She has made a mockery of me. And in the Vory world, there is only one punishment for such a crime.

As little as I care for her, I still cannot in good conscience sentence her to death. Viktor is old school in some ways, and modern in others. He does not follow the original Vory tradition of forsaking all family. To him, a family outside of the Vory is as important as the brothers themselves. A happy home makes for a loyal Vor, he likes to say. The organization is very old, but it has evolved to the times. Now it is common practice to marry suitable prospects within our own culture, or for the sake of alliances. For a man with my rank, Katya is the most obvious choice. The one who Viktor and her father Anatoly insisted upon. So this ruse continues. He wants my reassurances. And I will give them, for now.

“She is busy planning a Christmas party.”

Viktor waves his hand and dismisses the idea as preposterous. “That is nonsense. She should be planning a wedding, Lyoshenka. Anatoly has asked me for a date several times already.”

I take a spoonful of Borscht and bide my time. I am running out of reasons to give him.

“What is holding you back?” he asks. “You are thirty-five this year. Do you not believe it is far past time to start a family?”

“It is,” I agree. “I want that very much.”

“And yet, you hesitate,” Viktor argues. “I’m starting to believe you have doubts.”

The waiter comes and clears our bowls, and Viktor leans forward to study me.

“Does this have anything to do with your father?”

“It has nothing to do with him,” I counter. My voice betrays the indignation I always feel at the mention of Sergei, but a man like Viktor doesn’t heed warnings from anyone.

“You have never believed you were adequate, Lyoshenka. You must let these fears go. Katya will make a good wife for you. She is already aware of your condition. And she accepts it. She will be loyal. In that, she has no choice.”

Only, she isn’t loyal. She is a liar and a whore. One who seeks a high ranking husband but prefers to sample all of his Vory brethren behind his back. But I do not tell Viktor that. Instead, I only nod.

He sighs and leans back in his chair, requesting another drink. The waiter promptly fills it up and leaves us to our conversation.

“What of this slave?” he asks. “You plan to keep her in America until Arman comes through?”

His words stir to life the mental image of the girl. Talia. It is the same image I have thought of many times since I met her only last night. She is more damaged than even I had foresaw. Franco was right. I have been over every detail of her life. Of her photos. But meeting her in person… seeing her in those conditions… I was not prepared.

She is skin and bones. A tangled mess of blonde hair and a gaunt, lifeless face. Those empty gray eyes were a painful reminder of someone else. Another ghost. One that haunts me often. And already, Talia is provoking memories I have no desire to revisit. I have questioned my strategy a thousand times over since the night before. And yet, even now, I am anxious to retrieve her and bring her to my home. To carry through on my plans before I can doubt it further.

“Yes,” I tell Viktor. “She will stay at my home.”

“At your home?” he questions.

“Magda will care for her,” I explain.

He does not challenge my judgment any further, and I am glad. But he does observe my obvious discomfort.

“You seem… impatient,” he remarks.

“Only to get home,” I answer.

He nods. “Ah, yes. Well that makes two of us. We will give Arman one week to come through. And if he does not, then we will move forward. And we can both get back to our sanctuaries.”

“Agreed,” I tell him.

I already know that Arman will not come through. Because I have designed it that way. And yet when Viktor holds up his glass to toast, the traitor inside of me toasts him back.